Hat tip to CTRL+W33D.

It’s the dilemma nigh-every attractive, cash-strapped city boy faces in a tough economic climate: is it wrong to sell it on-the-side to get by?

Every megalopolis has its resident Red Light Land, the bounds of which are not limited to a compartmentalized Times Square, The Castro, or Santa Monica Boulevard. There are uptown and downtown hookers, some gypsies, some tramps, some thieves; some you can spot on a dime, others you’d never guess were on the stroll.

Every time I have a Fanny Hill moment — you know what I mean if you’ve ever experienced someone offering you money for something sex-related — I always wonder just what clicks in someone’s mind that gets them to cross that line. I can’t say I have any big moral outrage against prostitution, but empirically I have cautions about how healthy it is, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I never feel like Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour when it happens. I get something more akin to the sensibility espoused by Strangers With Candy’s Jerri Blank (“When you walk ’til you limp, and you give a cut to a pimp — you’re a street whore.”), and that’s not the sexiest mindset ever. Sex work in all its various incarnations is just something that not everyone can sign on for. Just the term “sex worker” gives me the ick because it sounds like the nadir of voodoo capitalism wherein everyone has to be “productive” and even a basic biological act has got to turn a profit. (read the full article)

The Face of an Era!
The Cock of an Era!
And The Cutest Top Boy that Ever Lived!

Born on the island of Puerto Rico, Antonio Biaggi sports equipment that some anatomy experts have dubbed: A Sequoia of Flesh. Yes, all the classic elements are there: Uncut. 11-inches. Shocking girth. And to add to the glory, astounding, mesmerizing, pendulum-like, low-hanging balls!

Here’s some other facts about Antoni: He lived for several years in Miami, Florida before settling in San Francisco, California. And YES! Antonio is his real first name.

When not meeting the stream of demands to star in porn, he runs a small store that sells eco-friendly products. He feels strongly about environmental conservation — NO ANIMAL TESTING. EVER! He’s a big fan of latin music and Capoeira, a Brazilian martial arts form.

And great news for all Antoni fans. We just so happen to be featuring Antoni in our latest Rear Stable video update in the Circle.

Yes, watch in wonder as little Tristan Phoenix works his way up and down Antonio’s shaft, trying valiantly to wet the whole thing. Even Tristan, whose resume includes the term “professional cocksucker” struggles with the monster rod that Antonio feeds him. With his throat full-to-bursting, Tristan rubs his asshole in eager anticipation, warming his pucker up for, well, we’ll let you guess. It’s recommended that this video not be watched before driving, operating heavy machinery or ironing clothing.

“I have a shit load of fans out there who know better. After all, who invented verbal porn?!” – Jon Vincent

By his own admission, you could call Jon Vincent a lot of things: sex fiend, manipulative hustler, revolving-door junkie, anabolic casualty, errant hubbie, absentee father, porn trash, heedless good time guy, and trash-talker supreme. But a has-been? Even at his lowest point, he knew better.

With the curtain seeming to come down on the era of the Porn Kings and the Land of Smutdom, you’d be harried to name any current star who inspires the same cultish adoration and hushed reverence in the manner that Jeffrey James Vickers’s alter ego Jonny V. does. Though the teeth-gnashing, hole-obliterating motherfucker appeared in only a relative handful of otherwise lackluster flicks — there’s really no name-defining epic like a Powertool or Big Guns in the mix — he stands on a pillar of immortality that Falcon’s or Titan’s five-years-ago big names never reach. Ultimately, the same fateful cocktail of character flaws and grim life experiences that made him an inveterate drug addict synchronously (and troubingly) made him a mythic sex star. (read the full article)

This guy has great prison biceps. We truly hope that there’s irony involved here, but who can really tell anymore?

Woke up this morning, what do I see?
Three thousand cameras, pointing at me,
Dude says, You Levi?, I’m like, Yes, that’s me sir,
Well, you’ve knocked up the VP nominee’s daughter
– Levi Johnston’s Blues

With the shock and awe of a reality TV show, the news just keeps exploding regarding America’s would-be second family. Like the Addams clan, the Palin Family just won’t die.

But we’re not complaining. If it’s news about hunky stup pup Levi, well, then we’re all ears — let the gossip fly.

Yep, Levi Johnson, the nineteen-year-old father of Bristol Palin’s out-of-wedlock spawn and failed veep candidate Sarah Palin’s grandchild, has announced publicly that he’s spending concentrated time in the gym to beef up for his planned nude spread in Playgirl, the magazine that ceased publication in 2008, but plans for a strong online comeback soon.

Let us review, briefly, the tour of fame young Levi has been through leading up to this point.

Election year 2008 was a big year for Levi, son of an obscure, drug-addicted working-class mother in Wasilla. Levi was a know-nothing when it came to politics and public image. But fate had other plans. He was dating Bristol Palin, daughter of the recently-elected governor of the state of Alaska, which is about the size (population-wise) of a mid-sized American city.

John McCain’s last-ditch announcement that Levi’s maybe-mother-in-law would be his Vice Presidential candidate threw Levi onto the national stage with the full speed of a 24-hour news cycle.

I can imagine the invasive coaching he received those days: “Well Levi, this week you’re going to meet the Republican presidential nominee. Also Levi, you’re going to St. Paul to appear on stage in front of the whole country at the Republican National Convention. My god! Get a haircut! Your girlfriend’s mom might become vice president, so you might want to fix up your Myspace page because it just became the laughing-stock of the Left and plastered across Daily KOS and The New York Post. And, oh yeah — you probably already knew this but your underage girlfriend is pregnant, and she’s definitely keeping it now. Oh — and you should buy a ring, because you’re getting married.” (read the full article)

Anthropologically, he’s known as Heroicus Humanus.

Street name: He-Man.

In the antediluvian landscape of the distant past, his was a breed of peerless renown. It was he who led the war-glutted ice apes as they cut a battle swath through the witch-haunted marshes of the untrodden west.

Naked and armed with only a broadsword upon blazing Lemurian shores, he alone drove the invading sea serpents back into their charnel citadels of the deep. He-Man used his cavernous cleavage to suffocate the Lizard King atop his jewel-brindled aerie, then beat back and anally subdued the Troglodorian Brotherhood as they marched upon the eldrich gates of Myr where slumber the star-spawned ones.

Now he’s an extant loner wayfaring the Big Apple, teetering on the brink of extinction…and topless…perpetually topless.

You’d swear it all sounds like a syndicated TV pilot from the 80s starring Lorenzo Lamas, but it’s actually the brilliant, just-for-the-hell-of-it inspiration behind the culty blog findheman.com.

Its mission statement is clear: devote an ironic chronicle to a swarthy New York longhair in cargo pants and a Mohican pullback ‘do, create a fabulously overwrought mythos around him, document his movements on a weekly basis and elevate him to Web-wide stardom. (read the full article)